


Not Just Science, Apparently

by Atisenia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baking, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humor, M/M, Tumblr: letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/pseuds/Atisenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She very nearly started laughing at the sight of him still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, covered in white powder.</p>
<p>“Mrs Hudson, your assistance is required,” Sherlock said, looking ridiculously composed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Just Science, Apparently

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock's [Challenge 8](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/67160883698/challenge-8-you-know-shes-got-stories-to-tell).  
> I seem to have developed a fondness for silly fluffy stories. There's only a little bit of angst 'cause I seem unable to seriously hurt them right now.  
> Still not a native English speaker.;)

It was a lovely evening, a nice quiet ending to a very lovely day, despite the strange noises coming from the boys’ flat from the very morning. Mrs Hudson stopped being bothered by such minor inconveniences a long time ago. Since she got them both back, she was rather grateful for the constant reminder of their presence. The flat was full of comforting sounds of life and she wanted it to stay that way for as long as possible.

She switched the telly on to watch one of those procedural dramas Sherlock always scoffed at. The detectives had just began following the suspect when there was a loud crash upstairs followed by heavy stomping and knocking on her door.

She opened the door and greeted Sherlock, prepared to tell him off for making the flat inhabitable _again_ , and on a special day like this too. Yet she very nearly started laughing at the sight of him still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, covered in white powder.

“Mrs Hudson, your assistance is required,” Sherlock said, looking ridiculously composed.

“What have you done now, young man?” Mrs Hudson tried her best to sound disapproving but the quiver of her lips probably gave her away. “If you started making bombs again and there’s flour all over the place, I swear—“

“There isn’t,” Sherlock said, too quickly to convince her. He stared at her intently, as if that would get him somewhere. Silly. He finally gave up and sighed. “Fine, there is,” he said petulantly. “But I have _not_ been making bombs. Come with me.”

Mrs Hudson folded her arms and levelled Sherlock with a disapproving glare.

“Please?”

“What then?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“What have you been doing that turned you into a polar bear?”

“I’m not—“

“Sherlock...”

“Fine,” he muttered. “Bkng”

“Excuse me, dear, I seem to have troubles with my hearing today. Terribly sorry, it comes with the age.”

Sherlock sent her a scornful look but eventually relented.

“Baking, okay?” he spit out. “I have been baking.”

“Baking? Why?” Mrs Hudson asked, rather perplexed. She would sooner expect the bomb making.

“Experiment,” Sherlock said. Of course it was. It always was when anything suspicious appeared in the flat. “Please,” he insisted and a small cloud of flour followed him up the stairs.

Mrs Hudson shook her head at him fondly and followed, after making sure her door was firmly locked.

She gasped when she finally stepped into 221B. Every surface of the living room seemed to be covered in half-baked goods, flour and broken eggs. Mrs Hudson purposefully didn’t look towards the kitchen.

“Oh dear, what happened here?” she asked.

“I told you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, sounding irritated. “Baking.”

“Well, this looks more like you were having one of those food fights you only ever see on the telly.” Mrs Hudson looked around with wide eyes. “Why on earth would you need so many cakes for?”

Sherlock grimaced and put the bowl with flour on the already cluttered coffee table with too much force. It sent some of the powder flying around him.

“I don’t,” he said. “I only need one.”

“Then why...?” Mrs Hudson frowned and looked at Sherlock, arms folded in front of her. “Sherlock, why do you need a cake?”

“I told you, it’s—“

“Oh, don’t give me that, dear. I may not look my age but I wasn’t born yesterday, mind.” Sherlock looked at her with big, innocent eyes that didn’t manage to deceive her. “It’s for John’s birthday, isn’t it?”

“No,” Sherlock said immediately, the defensive note in his voice giving him away. He sighed. “It _is_ John’s birthday but that’s not why I need the cake.”

“That’s exactly why,” Mrs Hudson said and Sherlock scowled at her. “Honestly, dear, I know you think we’re all idiots here but give me some credit, would you?”

Sherlock started picking up one of the suspiciously un-cake-like things from the floor, but only managed to make a bigger mess out of it. He muttered to himself and finally looked at Mrs Hudson’s immovable form.

“Fine,” he said, practically spitting the word. “Clearly, I won’t make the same mistake ever again.”

Mrs Hudson nodded and eyed the burnt piece by the door.

“So why would John need an army of cakes?” she asked.

“He doesn’t; he just needs the one. It’s just this stupid recipe!”

Sherlock seemed so frustrated, so genuinely annoyed, that Mrs Hudson finally took pity on him and started cleaning the kitchen while he worked on the living room. She frowned at the dubious looking mass in the sink.

“What—“

“The recipe doesn’t specify the temperature, nor the program with which to bake the cake, it hardly even specifies the time, like that’s supposed to be common knowledge.” Sherlock winced but then looked at Mrs Hudson with reluctant curiosity. “Is it?”

“No, dear.”

“No, I didn’t think so. The least they could do was make their recipe accurate.”

Mrs Hudson very carefully removed the mass from the sink, ran water over it a couple of times, disinfected it, and then started washing the dishes.

“So you decided to keep trying until you got it right?” Mrs Hudson asked.

“Obviously,” he said. Mrs Hudson shook her head at him. “It also didn’t taste right, so I, uh...” He cleared his throat and moved some dishes around.

“Experimented with the ingredients?” Mrs Hudson finished for him, looking warily at a particularly nasty example that sat merrily on the counter. It looked like the eggs were just dying to get out of it.

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted.

“Where did you get the recipe?”

“The internet. It’s John’s fav— It’s a cake someone might like, I’ve been assured.”

Mrs Hudson smiled at him fondly.

“You silly boy!” she said. “You should have asked me this morning.”

“Yes, well, baking isn’t exactly supposed to be a challenging task,” Sherlock muttered, clearly annoyed. “It’s just science, when you have exact and specific directions.”

“Not everyone thinks that way.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock said, the beginnings of a sulk visible in the line of his lips. Time to give him something to do.

“Don’t worry,” Mrs Hudson said. “We’ll clean up this mess and then we’ll bake John a perfect cake.”

They worked for a couple of hours with a bare minimum of fussing from Sherlock, which was rather refreshing. The sight of him scrubbing the floor with a concentration he usually reserved for dead bodies, annoying people and John was entirely priceless.

“So, what are you giving John?” Mrs Hudson asked when they finally migrated to the unusually spotless kitchen. She kept Sherlock busy with finding the right vessels, searching for products and weighing the right amounts of them. As far away from the mass as the kitchen allowed. “You did buy him something, didn’t you?”

“No,” Sherlock said, frowning at the bowl with egg whites. “Does beating the whites first really matter if you’re adding the yolks to the mass anyway?”

“Yes. What about—”

“Couldn’t you just add the whole egg instead?”

“No.” Mrs Hudson said, adding the foam to the mass. “And don’t you change the subject on me like that.”

“Why?”

“Why? Sherlock, I’m not this easy to manipulate, you know, and—“

“No, the egg thing.” Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. “Why does it matter?”

“It just does.”

“I think we should investigate rather than believe in what one moronic recipe copies from another moronic recipe.”

“Sherlock...”

“Maybe there’s absolutely no need for this ridiculous procedure...”

“Sherlock, dear, do shut up, please,” Mrs Hudson said. Sherlock’s jaw snapped shut at once. “You can experiment all you want later, when the cake for John is ready. Wasn’t that why you came asking for my help?” Sherlock muttered something under his breath. “Now, what about that gift for John?”

“What about it?”

“Well, what is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock...” Mrs Hudson glared at him.

“Honestly, if I were to buy John a gift, he’d only feel uncomfortable because he didn’t give me anything on my last birthday.”

Mrs Hudson stopped working on the cake and stared at Sherlock with pursed lips.

“He thought you were dead.”

“Irrelevant.”

“He left flowers on your grave.”

“I don’t even like flowers.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Her glare never wavered.

“What, should I reciprocate?” He huffed. “John doesn’t like flowers either. That’s why I— we,” he conceded grudgingly, “are baking the cake.”

Mrs Hudson was still unimpressed and entirely unconvinced. She added cocoa to the mass and looked at Sherlock pointedly. Eventually, he sighed.

“I told you, I didn’t buy him anything.”

“Alright,” Mrs Hudson said mildly.

“I mean it!” he said, clearly irritated.

“Of course, dear.” Mrs Hudson absently added the last ingredients to the mass, then mixed it all carefully.

A moment passed.

And then another.

And then Sherlock groaned.

“Fine!” he said. “But I still didn’t buy a thing.”

He stormed out of the kitchen and disappeared in his bedroom. Mrs Hudson put the cake into the oven (which they had thoroughly cleaned) and started making the cream, intent on waiting out the sulk. She lifted her eyebrows in surprise when Sherlock came back with a wooden box.

“It belonged to my father,” he said and showed her an elegant penknife.”The blades are extra sharp and I had it customized to include a lock pick. It’s small enough to pass unnoticed if he’s searched, but can be really quite deadly.” Sherlock grinned sheepishly, looking a little bit uncertain. As if social standards on present giving ever applied to either of them.

“Well, that’s really lovely,” Mrs Hudson said and started heating the chocolate. “You boys get in trouble entirely too often.”

Sherlock looked at her thoughtfully and then frowned at the penknife.

“I suppose... Maybe I should put a tracking device in it.”

“You do that, dear. Just don’t let John know. He might remove it, the silly man, and then how would you find him?”

Sherlock beamed at her.

“Mrs Hudson, you are a star!” he said and stormed out again. When he came back, he had the device in place and grinned like a Cheshire Cat at the cake sitting on the kitchen table. “It looks good,” he said.

“It was a good recipe.”

Sherlock glared at her, obviously itching to contradict her, but for once he didn’t say anything. “We’re not sticking candles in it,” he warned.

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

“Fine, dear, I’m not arguing.” Sherlock frowned at her, as if he thought she’d engage in some subterfuge.

“It’s childish,” he said for good measure.

Mrs Hudson smiled at him fondly.

“When does your doctor come back home then?” she asked, diverting his attention from the one-sided argument.

“He’s not my—” Sherlock said, almost absently, before he caught himself and clenched his jaw with an audible click. “ _John_ will be here soon. He’s probably just finishing his shift. I don’t know why he insists...”

The phone in his dressing gown pocket vibrated. Mrs Hudson observed as he tried not to smile at the screen, only to visibly deflate before he could school his features into indifference again.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock muttered. He threw the phone on the sofa and disappeared into his room.

Mrs Hudson didn’t hesitate to take the phone. Sherlock didn’t even bother to lock it again, which was so unlike him it made her worry.

There was a message from John in his inbox:

_Going out with some mates. Will be home late._

“Oh, you silly men!” Mrs Hudson sighed.

She put the phone down and went to hide the cake in the fridge before Sherlock could even decide to throw it away or use it to attack the wall.

He emerged from his room not long after that, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown but much more composed and finally flourless.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, carrying his microscope back to the kitchen. “You have been of invaluable help to me. It’s a shame your baking skills won’t be properly appreciated.”

“Sherlock...”

“I’m about to conduct a vital experiment,” Sherlock bent over the microscope but didn’t put any slide in. “It can be considered a hazard to one’s health so I would strongly suggest clearing out of the danger zone.”

Mrs Hudson sighed and put the kettle on. She debated calling John but she didn’t think either of them would appreciate it much. John would run back eagerly, of course, but a hurt Sherlock tended to lash out and John could end up with cake all over his face.

When the kettle boiled, Mrs Hudson made two mugs of tea. She left one of them beside Sherlock who still looked through the microscope at empty space.

She wasn’t about to leave him all alone, not when he was like this, so she sat in John’s chair and put the telly on. That detective show she’d started watching ended a long time ago, so Mrs Hudson contented herself with the news and sipped at her tea listening about another government squabble.

When _MasterChef_ started, Sherlock came from the kitchen and slumped dramatically onto the sofa.

A war film started on a different channel and Sherlock switched to his thinking pose, his breathing slowing.

Before midnight passed, he was asleep, his silly over stimulated brain finally giving in to the need for rest.

Mrs Hudson smiled gently and fetched him a blanket. She needed to talk to the boys and make them listen to some reason. They couldn’t go on like this, hurting each other without really meaning to.

When she finally cleaned the kitchen properly and went downstairs, it was just after one o’clock. The front door opened when she was at the bottom of the staircase and revealed a slightly drunk army doctor.

“John Watson,” she whispered intently. John looked at her with surprise. “That poor boy upstairs just managed to fall asleep. Don’t you dare wake him!”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“I mean it,” she insisted. “I’ll know, young man. And then you and I will have a nice little chat tomorrow. In fact, we’ll have it anyway.”

John frowned and nodded cautiously. Mrs Hudson entered her flat, finally satisfied.

She didn’t hear anything from the boys until the usual morning sounds woke her up from a light sleep. She went out to get some fresh scones and climbed up the stairs, determined.

The door to the flat was cracked open, so she let herself in. At first neither Sherlock nor John saw her. They were sitting side by side on the sofa, not quite touching but very close to each other. The cake sat proudly on the coffee table. John’s attention was focused on his new knife and Sherlock had his gaze fixed on John’s face.

Finally John raised his head to smile at Sherlock and spotted her still standing by the door.

“Mrs Hudson!” he said and smiled at her as well. “Come on in, we were just about to get you here.”

“Oh, were you?” she asked, stepping closer to them, still carrying the scones.

“Yes, it seems I haven’t taken actually eating the whole cake into consideration,” Sherlock pouted but she could tell he was only faking irritation.

The back of John’s hand brushed lightly over Sherlock’s.

It seemed she needn’t have worried at all.


End file.
